


Scars and Apologies

by NorroenDyrd



Series: It's O/K! [3]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Battle Scars, F/M, Fade to Black, Fluff and Angst, Forbidden Love, Forgive Me, Forgiveness, Guilt, Markarth, Mentions of Wolf Queen Awakens quest, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Solitude, conflicted feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-09 00:02:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5518010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another snippet of the unlikely love story between Ondolemar and his personal pain-in-the-neck, an ever-cheerful Redguard that has managed to awaken his soft side. And it is precisely this soft side that does not let him rest, not allowing him to continue insulting and mistreating the bothersome human as a mer in his position technically should.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scars and Apologies

I lean against the hard stone wall, folding my arms on my chest, pretending to look casual.

Must remember to sneer every time a human passes me by.

Must remember what to say if my soldiers come reporting to me.

Must remember to breathe at regular intervals.

Must remember not to make any sounds that might resemble sobs.

  
  
It has happened again. Just as it happened countless times before. I was merely stating a fact. Merely reminding us both of our relative places in the order of the universe... which you - and I, regrettably, - so often forget.  
  
You belong to one of the races of man - this makes you infinitely inferior to me, a mer deemed worthy for a life in service of the Dominion. This makes what we are doing a terrible, unforgivable mistake... a crime. A felony.

But when I tried to get this across to you, to make you dwell, as I do, on the gravity of the situation, you just laughed it off. As always. By the... By the _Divines,_ I cannot bear when you smile like that!.. It is beautiful, it is enthralling... intoxicating... and at the same time, it makes me furious.  
  
I know that it is unthinkable for a Thalmor officer to lose his temper, to act on the spur of the moment like some lowly Nord... but you, with the teasing sparkles in your eyes, with your laughter... that you hurl at me like a silver throwing star... you are more than enough to irrevocably shatter the nerves of the most composed, the most superiorly bred mer of all.

Thus my actions were completely justified - both slapping you and calling you a worthless maggot, a speck of filth upon the soles of my boots... Among... _among other things._  
  
  
It has happened again. You provoked me, I unleashed my righteous wrath... and then you walked away... In silence. Rubbing absently at my palm mark on your cheek. Glancing back at me every now and then with those unbearably blue eyes of yours. You lingered in the Keep's doorway for a few moments; you always do... as though waiting for me to say something. But what am I supposed to say? I am not to blame!  
  
_I am not to blame._ I keep repeating these words to myself, forcing them inside my head, as if I were stabbing my own mind with a dagger.

And yet, they fail to sink in. As always, I feel regret. Heart-wringing, agonizing regret. I am repelled by my own actions... I am haunted by the thought that what I did was wrong, even though all that I've been taught, all that I've taught others, tells me otherwise.  
  
  
'Sir...' one of my soldiers peers tentatively into my face. 'Are you not feeling well, sir? Do you require a potion?'  
  
_'How dare you_ patronize your superior officer like this?' I lash out at him, almost choking on my own words. 'Go back to your duties!'  
  
'Y-yes, sir, right... right away sir,' he scrambles off, tripping over one of those disgusting flea-bitten mongrels the Jarl insists on keeping.  
  
  
So... It shows.

I am not longer capable of concealing my feelings.

It bursts through the mask-like countenance I was once so proud of. My burning shame - and my fear.

Oh, yes, I am afraid... like a human child.

Terrified, more than ever, at the thought that this might have been the last straw. It has been so long since I last struck you... And... All that I said... All those insults I poured over you... You might very well... _You might never forgive me._

I tell myself to resist this fear, I remind myself that it is ridiculous, that it is blasphemy. For a Thalmor, to seek forgiveness? For a mer, to care about a human's feelings?..  
  
I take a deep, resolute breath of air. I shall not abide being tortured like this! This insanity has been going on long enough. If, after my outburst - which, I repeat, was completely justified! - you should choose to terminate this outrageous relationship, so be it. At least, I shall not have not kill you... I might even take a few extra measures to secure my chance of freedom.  
  
  
It takes me colossal effort to make my way across the stone hall, past the Jarl's throne and to that pathetic little dog kennel where I have had to set up my desk. My heart beats so violently that I feel nauseated, but, biting into my lips, I command myself to cross the threshold of the wildly spinning room and to open the secret compartment where I keep most of the important documents. I soon find what I am looking for. I cannot fathom why I ever acquired the thing... What in the gods' name was I trying to accomplish?..  
  
Now, to get it to the Keep's blacksmith. Of course, I could have just thrown it away... But this would not have been enough. Far from so. I smile as I close my fingers round the tiny rag bundle - I have wrapped the thing up in several layers of cloth to better conceal it... I smile, but not the way you taught me. I smile they way I had always done before I had the misfortune to meet you. The way one smiles if, say, an interrogation is going well, or if a report has just arrived of a successful purge.  
  
I find the great Orc brute blundering about his small workshop, grimy and sweaty and disgusting as always. He seems surprised to see me - or so I can read from the lines on his excuse for a face. And so he should be; under normal circumstances, a mer in my station would never have dreamt of mixing with the peons. But these are not normal circumstances - _you have made sure that nothing in my life is normal..._  
  
'Whatcherwant?' the smith grumbles, not even making an attempt to acknowledge that he is in the presence of a higher being.  
  
I make sure that the look I give him is as contemptuous as possible.  
  
'I need you to destroy this item,' I say curtly, handing him my bundle. 'Toss it into your forge, but do not look. Do you understand me, or do I speak too fast for you? Are the words I use too long, perhaps?'  
  
He makes a barely coherent growl and follows my orders. One abrupt gesture, and the bundle lands in the very centre of the smouldering golden circle. No questions asked. The beast must be smart enough to put two and two together: he has sworn loyalty to the Jarl, and the Jarl answers to the Dominion, that is, to _me..._ All the same, I stay behind to ensure that he does not catch a glimpse of the bundle's contests after the cloth burns away.  
  
As the forge flame devours what I have kept hidden in my desk for so long - as far as I recall, I got my hands on the thing shortly after that awkward, humiliating confession in Vlidrel Hall - I order myself to be relieved. I order my fear and guilt to be replaced by satisfaction. This - this is dotting the i's and crossing the t's. Now, even in the unlikely event of your coming back to me, I shall stand prepared. I shall push you away without a second thought. I shall finally be able to clear my name.  
  
...But the feeling of remorse does not go away. Entranced, mesmerized by the hot pulsing of the flame, I find myself struggling with a wild urge to plunge my hands into the seething coals and pull out the melting bundle before it is too late. The part of me that wants me to be done with you once and for all - the infinitely wise part, the part that I should have heeded much, much more often - is too weak; the rest of my being screams for me to stop this, to seek you out and to hurl myself at your feet, begging you to smile at me again...  
  
My head clears a little as we are suddenly joined by a young, piteously meek-looking Imperial in a rather lop-sided leather apron, who sticks his head inside the smithy and asks falteringly,  
  
'Moth? Can I hide out here for a while? Your sister's after my hide again!'  
  
The Orc shrugs. 'I suppose. Isn't your little Redguard protector in town, though?'  
  
The boy slips inside and catches his breath.  
  
'She's left. She was hanging out at the forge couple of hours ago, helping me help Ghorza and not get yelled at - strange thing, she was signing all the time, as always, but her eyes were kinda puffed up, like she'd been crying...'  
  
I feel my heart contract. _You have been crying. I have made you cry..._

What of it, my infinitely wise part asks. _What of it?_ Tears are a common, natural human way of displaying weakness. And my reaction to these tears is a way of displaying weakness as well. Did I not say myself that you are but a speck of filth?.. You can cry all you want; I won't care; nothing in the world will induce me to care. The little bundle has disappeared, swallowed up by the forge; and so should the last shred of feelings I have for you...  
  
In the meantime, the two lower beings seem to have completely forgotten my presence. The Orc chortles at the Imperial boy's words,  
  
'Crying? Little Kia? Nah, must've been the forge smoke!'  
  
The boy makes a vague gesture,  
  
'Maybe. Well, like I said, she was hanging around the forge when a courier came for her. From Solitude. Said Falk Fire-Beard wanted her in the Blue Palace; something about Potema the Wolf Queen...'  
  
The powerful necromancer from another age? Appearing again, after you defeated her summoners? I remember you telling that story, your mouth full of bread and cheese, waving your hands in the air to draw invisible outlines of ruined towers, of undead patrolling the battlements, and of mages standing in a circle, arms raised high, heads thrown back, waiting for the dreadful force they have stirred to fully awaken... So I was right. I told you, then and there, that it would take more than just sticking your sword into the ritual master to truly put Potema to rest. Much, much more if she had been an Altmer... No, if she had been an Altmer, she would not have been defeated in the first place...  
  
In any case, this must mean that there may very well be legions of undead running amok in this miserable province's capital right now. Those incompetent humans from the Palace cannot do anything on their own, of course; they need you... _everyone always needs you._ And you always answer their call, no matter the danger.  
  
  
The next thing I know is that I am sitting in a carriage bound for Solitude, a lightning spell readied in case the driver dallies. I seem to have quite a relationship history with carriage drivers; whenever I cross paths with one, I inevitably end up resolving to violence... But then what else am I to do if they are all such brainless buffoons?  
  
The craggy, moss-covered cliffs rush by in a grey haze, much like the haze inside my mind. I do not recall paying the driver or giving him directions; I am still wearing my uniform, which means that I just rushed out of the Keep without changing into civilian clothing and thinking of a proper cover story... Thank the gods that a Thalmor travelling to Solitude should not rouse much suspicion.  
  
These thoughts glide through my mind and slip away into the darkness of oblivion without leaving a trace; I find myself unable to focus on anything but you. Descending into the darkness of some long-forgotten catacombs, your face lit up with an eerie glow of a mage light orb, your sword unsheathed, ready to pierce any shadow that separates itself from the breathing, whispering murk around you...

What if the shadows prove too many? What if, relentless, powerful, fed by cold, ancient hatred, they overwhelm you? Or what if you yourself... with traces of tears on your childishly dimpled cheeks... with a deep wound from my words, from my slapping you, still festering in your heart... What if you stay your blade, and wait for Potema's brood to sweep over you, seeking death to quell the pain within you - _the pain that I inflicted?_

What if your silvery voice, your ringing laughter is silenced forever... what if you are taken away from me, and the last words I would ever say to you will be filled with rage, and arrogance, and contempt? What if while I was lingering in the Keep's smithy, ordering myself to cast you out of my mind forever, you, at the exact same moment, were struggling for your life, your strength gradually waning, darkness closing in on you?..  
  
Never before have I been more afraid of losing you. Not even on that night in Riften, when I found you lying senseless in the gutter, beaten up by the thugs that Black-Briar woman had sent to _'teach you a lesson'._ That night, the voice of wisdom within me was completely silenced; and so it is now. I no longer care about elven supremacy and the cause of the Thalmor. I no longer care what number of gods there should really be up there; as long as they hear my frenzied prayers and keep you safe.  
  
  
When I arrive in Solitude and stumble towards the main gate, ignoring the driver's indignant call for his fee, it is past midnight, and the velvety sky over the city's towers is ablaze with fireworks. This has to mean you succeeded. This has to mean you are alive... My fear ebbs away, like a wave drawing back into the sea after it has crashed down upon the shore - and for a moment, the voice of wisdom speaks up again. I shouldn't be here. I should turn back. I _must_ turn back. _Now._ But I do not.  
  
As I enter the market square, I brush my shoulder against one of those tin-headed scarecrows the local humans use as guards, and hear him mutter under his breath,  
  
'A Thalmor? Spying on Thane Kiara's celebration?'  
  
He pronounces your name so effortlessly, so casually... I have never been able to do that. I believe I wouldn't even use up all fingers on one hand to count the times when I called you by your name. It is infinitely easier to address you as 'human', always, _always_ with a few demeaning attributes. And why shouldn't I do that?.. It is not as if you were my equal.

And yet, here it goes. Yet another pang of guilt. The blasphemous urge to seek pardon for what I did resurfaces with renewed strength. You have emerged victorious from your battle with Potema; this must mean you are somewhere in the city, rejoicing together with your revelling admirers. I push on forward, determined to find you...  
  
  
Despite the late hour, the square is packed full with townsfolk, laughing loudly, brandishing mugs filled with some dark liquid - spiced wine, judging by the smell - gaping, mouths open, eyes glassy and blank, like the primitive creatures that they are, at the blossoms and zigzags and wild rivers of fire that are criss-crossing the sky.

The fireworks have been lit by the bards at their College, no doubt, in your honour; you love fireworks, just as you love anything vulgar and garish and... what was the word... _fun._ You keep trying to infect me with this detestable affinity of yours, and, absurdly enough, you have succeeded - in certain small ways. For the look of disgust that I give the revellers, elbowing my way through the heaving crowd towards Proudspire Manor - your seat as Thane - is only half-genuine. You will never know of this, of course. Unless one day I go completely mad. Which, I fear, might happen soon enough.  
  
Most of the celebrating humans are already too drunk to be able to grasp that they are basking in the glory of a member of the Thalmor; they stubbornly refuse to make way for me, and I shudder in horror, feeling those clumsy peasant feet in coarse boots step on mine. At long last, I come in view of the Manor's porch; I recognize the Nord woman standing on the stone steps and gesturing frantically at the crowd. She is one of those many servants that you have, refusing to treat them as such, of course, insisting on calling them friends... Housecarl - yes, that must be the Nord word for that.  
  
_'Please, everyone!'_ the woman cries as some vagrant thrashes his mug against the pavement, roaring for the Thane to show herself so they can all ‘ _love her forever’_ (I shudder at the thought). 'Thane Kiara has been wounded; she cast a healing spell on herself and is now trying to rest! She wants you all to have a great time, but she can't come out - she is very sorry!'  
  
For a few seconds, I feel the tips of my fingers grow numb with cold. You make a point of not missing a single instance of 'having fun'... That wound must have been very grave for you to stay inside while the entire city is raving over your victory.  
  
In the meanwhile, the man who wanted to 'love you forever' refuses to desist... I think I know him; I have yet to meet another human with the same drooping, wine-soaked moustache. He assaulted me during one of those fiascos you call our 'dates' - the one that almost led to us being burned alive inside the Bards' College...  
  
'You know who's sorry, Jordis?' he bellows through a horrendous belch that almost makes me sway. _'You are!_ You have one sorry-looking face, you do! Come down here and have some fun!'  
  
And without further ado, he grabs the Housecarl by the forearm and drags her off, into the heart of the crowd... I couldn't have designed a better diversion myself. Now the way is clear. Crushing my heart down with my clenched fist to keep it contained within my chest, I stealthily separate myself from the revellers and step through the open front door.  
  
I vaguely know my way around; I have been here once or twice before. I have been to most of your many houses - always led by you by the hand, on tiptoe, pressing myself against the wall at the slightest noise as if I was a thief... Now I do not bother about secrecy; I am much too tired for that... the storm within my chest has worn me out. I rush upstairs to your bedroom - and freeze in the doorway.  
  
You are fast asleep, lying on your stomach. Your arms are thrown wide apart like wings of a bird that has dropped down on the ground, pierced by an arrow; the blanket is crumpled down somewhere at your feet, exposing your back. You must have pulled off whatever armour you had been wearing - I can discern a misshapen dark pile next to one of the bed posts - and thrown yourself onto the sheets just in your smallclothes. The moonbeams glide across the bed, and I feel, yet again, pierced by any icy spear of pain. You have just acquired a new scar.  
  
Your scars... I can recall when I first saw them; on that fateful journey across Skyrim, when I was supposed to be tracking down my rogue agent that had fallen in with a cannibal cult, and you were supposed to be guiding me through the wilderness - and we both were doing anything but. It was living hell... you were constantly teasing me, trying to catch me off-guard, to get me to reveal what you called _'the person behind the hood'_ \- and I was struggling to suppress the early onsets of that crippling disease... affection. One afternoon, we were trudging through the volcanic tundra when suddenly you got it into your head to take off your armour and to leap into one of those hot pools that dot the dreary landscape of Eastmarch. And as you were splashing about in deep turquoise water, calling, with annoying persistence, for me to come and join you, I caught a first glimpse of the scars running across your chest and back. Dozens of them. Countless jagged lines of all shades of pink and purple, some short, some long, some fine as a thread, some as broad as a phalanx of a finger... A whole storybook branded into your skin, relics of tales that I had either heard already or was to hear in the future...  
  
You must have sensed me looking, because you waddled up to the rock where I stood, taking great care not to get my robes wet, and beamed broadly,  
  
'You like 'em? I love 'em! I get one in almost every battle I'm in; they never let me forget how exciting it is to be an adventurer! Although...' you bit into your lips and raised your eyebrows, giving me that sly, mischievous look that I loathe - and long to see - most of all, 'One of the ladies from the Temple back in your lovely city said that scars make a woman's body look ugly... And that no man would have me....'  
  
That must have been the first time in my life that I felt a flush of colour singe my face... For at that same moment, I was thinking the exact opposite.  
  
  
Slowly, very slowly, I lower myself onto the edge of your bed, wincing slightly as it creaks under my weight, pull off one of my gloves and stretch my bare hand forward till the tips of my trembling fingers touch your scars. By now, I know the feel of every one of them, and as I softly caress your skin, my eyes half-closed, I see images pass through my mind. A wild sabre cat with a frothing mouth and dagger-like claws. A bandit camp coming alive at the sound of an intruder. A hag and her coven swooping down on the unwary ('Swooping is bad,' you would always say, with a small laugh, quoting one of your countless friends). A clanking, steaming Dwemer automaton. A starving vampire. A frenzied Forsworn fanatic. A landfall; a wolf pack; a dragon...  
  
You mutter something thickly and turn over; I barely have time to jerk back my hand. I cannot see your face, for it is almost entirely concealed beneath a ruffled veil of unruly black hair, which you have undone before going to sleep... but I can see the bottom of your neck and that place, just below your collar bones, where you have one of the fresher scars... A small, round burn mark, which tells a story that I would rather forget but am forced to relive over and over... _I gave you that scar._  
  
When my shameful, unnatural obsession with you first began, my primary theory was that I had been put under an Illusion spell, that you, with your obvious ties to the Stormcloaks, had been sent to destroy me. And I had you brought in for questioning.  
  
Before my soldiers arrived, pushing you, tied and gagged, in front of them, I... I had been drinking. I know it is beyond inappropriate, but at the time I felt I would be unable to face you otherwise. And when, again and again, you denied being part of a conspiracy against me, I lost control. If I hadn't run out of magicka when I did, I would have seared the flesh off your bones. What remains now is but a faint imprint of the pain you must have been in. A single scar, much smaller than many others. A single scar - but how many more are there, hidden, unseen - scars from my insults, my pride, my countless attempts to cast you aside and become a proper Thalmor again?  
  
I bend down and press my lips against the burn mark; you stir, about to awaken. The infinitely wise entity within me writhes in indignation, commanding me to tear myself away.

It has no power over me. It stopped having power over me long ago - for better or for worse, but it is about time I accepted it. I slip my hands beneath your back and sweep you up; my fingers wander along your scars, through your hair, their tips no longer cold.

You watch me for a while from below fluttering eyelids; then, as I finally unlock my kiss and look up from the scar on your chest, you peer into my face and whisper, your eyes swimming with tears,  
  
'I... I hurt you so much, don't I?'  
  
I stop caressing you, astonished.  
  
'I can feel what you are going through,' you go on softly. 'Your poor heart is one great big mess now, isn't it?'  
  
You smile at me. Warmly, tenderly. When you should have turned away. When you should have shunned me, after all that has been said and done...  
  
I can contain myself no longer.  
  
_'I am sorry,'_ I groan faintly, burying my face in my hands. 'I am sorry...'  
  
Three short words, so simple yet so hard to say out loud. Because behind each word, there are months of hidden struggle, of guilty torment, of self-inflicted suffering... _'I love you'_ was also a three-word phrase, and I had to get it out of myself like an arrowhead out of a wound.  
  
You put your arms round my shoulders,  
  
'Hush now... It's all right... Just don't cry, okay? Because I can't stand the sight of a grown mer crying, especially a supper-bread mer...'  
  
There is a short pause, as you look me over silently, your head cocked to one side - checking if I have taken offence. I plant a swift, reassuring kiss in the corner of your mouth; your eyes narrow to slits of sparkling blue,  
  
'Say... We are kinda unevenly matched, clothing-wise...'  
  
'Aren't you supposed to be recovering from a wound?' I ask - though without preventing your nimble fingers from dancing along my robe buckles.  
  
'Pshaw! I have recently learned my first Expert-level Restoration spell! I'm right as rain!'  
  
You drag me down onto the covers beside you, giggling. The last rational thought I have before we are swept away into delirium is a firm resolution to pay a visit to the Temple of the Eight first thing tomorrow; now that I have learned to give apologies, I might offer one to Lady Mara. I did have Her amulet melted down.

And perhaps I could purchase a new one from the priests, and finally put it on...


End file.
